Whose Idea Was This Anyway?
by KnightFury
Summary: Set during/soon after the storyline of One Wish (I am unsure at this point as One Wish is still very much in progress). This was meant as part of that story but came to outgrow it. Enjoy!


Hallowe'en, or All Hollow's Eve; my least favourite day of the year. I am a man of science and reason and as a result I like to remain within the realms of the tangible. I believe that God exists, for there are signs of His work if one looks for it wherever one may tread, but the spiritual and supernatural realms are His to reason and not mine. Ghosts are best left to priests in my opinion and I would rather not consider the possibility of other, more sinister things existing. Man can produce quite enough evil on his own.

All the same, I have agreed that we should throw a party for the Irregulars and I am not about to lose face.

John the compudroid is already wearing his costume. He looks horrible! I know that that is the general idea, but all the same... I take it that he is meant to look like a reanimated corpse, or 'zombie', as they are referred to in the horror films. He looks rather more as if he is wearing a very old rubber mask that has perished, in my opinion. Not that anyone is remotely interested in my opinion today.

"What are you supposed to be John?" I ask the compudroid with rather bad humour. I have never witnessed such a horrid costume!

Watson pats his shoulder. "Just ignore him; he is always like this when he is not getting his way."

Ignore me? I have been very good about this party idea! I have agreed to dress up, not that it is difficult, and I even helped with the shopping, despite the noise and heaving crowds. To decide to ignore me now is rather unfair, I believe.

"Holmes, do you think you could make up some non alcoholic punch?" Watson asks of me as I am about to protest. "You always did have quite a knack for mixing things."

I know exactly what he is doing here. He is attempting to keep me busy so that I shall be the less disagreeable. He is even attempting to keep the peace by flattering me!

He sighs and rubs at his temples. "Please Holmes... I do not want to be tired before the Irregulars even arrive and my head is already aching. Could you please co-operate?"

I smile and pat his shoulder. "Of course I will my dear fellow. Punch, you say? What shall I put in it?"

He attempts to conceal a yawn. "John, could you show Holmes the ingredients that we bought for the punch?"

I follow our companion downstairs to the kitchen. There is a selection of fruit, along with bottles and cartons of drinks.

"I have had an idea of my own for tonight," I inform the robot. "But I should prefer for it to remain a surprise."

He frowns at me. "I am not at all sure that I like that look. What manner of mischief are you planning Holmes?"

I raise my eyebrows at him.

"The expression of feigned innocence does little to reassure me."

"I am sure that I have not the slightest idea about what you could mean John," I retort. "I have no mischief planned."

He apologises, though it is obvious that he does not believe me, and explains what I am allowed to use and what I am not.

"The green cola and blue raspberry drinks were purchased for their colouring," he tells me. "Do not mix those with anything please."

Well, that is obvious! Why else would Watson have purchased terribly sweet beverages that have the appearance of being radio active?

"You can use anything else that you like, as long as you forgo alcohol and ensure that the taste is a pleasant one."

"Very well John," I rub my hands together. "Where is the punch bowl?"

What I am presented with is a bowl that is made to look like a hollowed-out skull. It looks horrid and I say as much.

"Come now Holmes! You are not squeamish, are you?"

"That is absolutely filthy," I respond. "You can clearly see mud and other dirt on it."

He laughs. "It is made to look like that. I have given it a thorough clean, I assure you. Would you like me to scan it for foreign particles to be safe?"

I nod and watch him work. The sight of that dish quite turns my stomach! What is wrong with crystal glass?

"It is perfectly clean," my companion repeats. "It is made to appear to be dirty because it is meant to be very old and well-used."

Well-used by witches, I suppose. What nonsense! It simply looks vile and I grimace. "Well, set it down on the counter if you would. I had better ensure that my hands are clean before I begin."

I wash my hands thoroughly and then get to work. I soon discover that most of the fruit juices are red in colour and that the punch takes on a blood-like hue rather quickly. Was that Watson's intention? How horrid!

John tosses something in when I announce that my work is done. He has cut up some fruits such as mango and grapes to resemble eyes, fangs and other body parts. In my day, that would have been taking things rather too far, as would that punch bowl. However, the computer games and television programmes that children watch these days make this look tame. I shall have to set aside such misgivings.

What should I do now? I decide that I should try to apologise to Watson for my disagreeable behaviour and so I get him some pills and a glass of water. That yawn was indication enough that his head was preparing to trouble him terribly.

My companion accepts my peace offering with gratitude. "Thank you Holmes. Does this mean that the punch is ready?"

"It does indeed," I reply with a small smile. "How are you feeling old fellow?"

He shakes his head and covers a quiet yawn. "Tired. I forget just how much preparation goes into these things."

I pat his shoulder. "I am terribly sorry that I have not been of more help. Is there anything else that I can do?"

"You could help John to decorate," he says, though his tone suggests that I would never agree to such a thing.

Whether his tone was supposed to spur me into action or not, I find myself unable to resist. In a trice I am inflating balloons and hanging rubber creatures such as spiders and bats from the ceiling. With John working alongside me, the task is soon completed and I am again at a loose end. I decide to ready myself for the arrival of our Irregulars.

My costume is rather like one that I have used before. It is comprised of make-up to cause me to appear even more pale than usual, a long cape with a high collar that comes up past my ears and fangs. I managed to frighten Watson with my vampire costume the last time that I wore it and I cannot help wondering whether I could do so again. I might if I change now without saying anything. Whether it elicits a reaction or not, however, I am confident that my costume will be immeasurably superior to John's and Watson's.

I hear John and Watson calling to me as I am washing (I still maintain my Victorian habit of using the washstand in my room when I change my clothes) and dressing, but I will not be rushed. I feel a draught come under my bedroom door soon after and then the distinctive voice of Beth Lestrade reaches my ears. Ha ha! So they have managed to talk her into joining us after all. I wonder what she is dressed as.

"Where's Holmes?" I hear the Yarder ask. "He hasn't decided to go out for the evening, has he?"

"If he has, he said nothing about it to me," Watson's voice responds.

"Nor me," John adds. "But it would not be the first time that he has vanished without a trace or word of warning."

"No," Lestrade agrees.

"Indeed not," Watson seconds in almost the same instant.

Do they really think me that thoughtless? When have I ever let them down?

"Well, I have some cakes and biscuits to decorate," I hear John announce after a moment of silence.

"I'll help," Lestrade volunteers.

I hear the sitting room door open and close as I pull on my cape and adjust the collar. I smile at myself in my washstand's mirror, revealing my fangs. Yes, I am all set.

I open the bedroom door a crack to see where Watson is. He is sitting in his armchair, facing the fireplace. I creep up behind him, avoiding the floorboards that squeak with ease. Just as my companion is starting to move as if to look behind him, I hiss through my teeth and spread my cloak dramatically.

There is a cry of surprise and alarm from my friend as he leaps from his chair and almost runs headlong into the fire.

"Watson! Calm yourself. It is me."

He turns to stare at me as he does just that. It seems to take him a moment to realise that it is indeed me. "Holmes! What the devil did you think you were doing? You might have frightened me to death!"

"A thousand apologies my dear fellow," I respond in haste. "I did not mean to give you such a scare."

"Are you still attempting to discern whether or not I believe in vampires?" he asks, clearly irked by my behaviour.

I shake my head and do my utmost to keep myself from smirking. "I simply thought that I might try my costume out."

"Humph!"

I go to his side and touch his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

He nods, though I can feel him shaking slightly. "You startled me. I had thought that I was quite alone," he frowns at me and shakes his head. "How many times must I tell you not to creep up behind a fellow Holmes?"

Again I apologise, but silence is a force of habit. I am only ever noisy out of clumsiness, which in turn is usually brought about by fatigue or illness.

"There is no harm done," he responds as he resumes his seat. "I only wish that you would contemplate the consequences of your actions."

I shrug and begin to fiddle with the hem of my cloak. I have apologised, what more does he want from me? "What will you be dressing as?" I enquire, hoping to change the subject.

"It is a surprise," he snaps.

He is still angry then. I decide to make a little wager with him in the hope that that might help him to forget his aggravation. My wager is a generous one: ten credits that my costume will be better than his.

"Prepare to lose Holmes," he warns me with a gleam in his eye.

Ha! That is highly unlikely. I smile at him and take to my armchair, stretching out my legs before the fire.

"Your outfit is rather thin," my companion notes.

I simply shrug with my hands. Of course the fabric is thin! It is not intended to be worn out of doors and the men and women of the 22nd Century travel by heated hovercars that seem remarkably luxurious when compared with the means of transport that Watson and I are accustomed to in any case.

"Would you like a blanket? I can see that you are shivering."

I am quite sure that, if the creatures existed, vampires would not need or want rugs. "No thank you; I am sure that it would quite ruin my costume and I am not about to lose a bet due to a slight discomfort."

He snorts quietly but does not press the subject, though he does frown at me from the corner of his eye.

Lestrade's footsteps sound on the stairs. They are barely recognisable without her Yard-issue boots. With the rustle of cheap fabric she enters the sitting room, almost dropping the plate of biscuits in her hand when she sees me. "Zed Holmes! I thought you'd gone out."

I smirk at her, showing my fangs. "That outfit suits you Lestrade. You make a very good hag."

She glares at me and strides forward to poke my chest with a clawed finger. Those hands! I know not what they are made of, but they look very realistic; as if she has neither washed nor cut her nails in decades.

I suppress a shudder and turn my attention to her face, which would appear to be covered with green face paint and sporting a false nose and warts.

"You know, I'm only here because John and Watson insisted," the Yarder growls. "I could just leave."

"Holmes dislikes parties and is being disagreeable as a result," Watson explains quietly, probably thinking (or hoping) that I can't hear him. "I am sure that he will be happier when the Irregulars arrive though; he usually is."

I am not being disagreeable! He makes me sound like a sulking and petulant child.

Lestrade laughs. "Aw, come on Sherlock. This'll be fun."

"Phshaw!"

"I hope you are going to be in better spirits when the Irregulars arrive," John says reproachfully as he comes in and sets down another platter of delights. "They should be here soon. Incidentally Doctor Watson, you had better go and get ready."

I refrain from saying that Watson does not need a mask or make-up; I do not really wish to upset my friend and it is not true in any case. My companion was always very good at turning young ladies' heads.

"Anything else I can do?" Lestrade offers cheerfully.

John smiles at her. "Thank you, no. I have everything well in hand now."

Watson is not gone long. It would seem that his outfit is not as elaborate as mine. However, it is interesting; a black costume with a skeleton printed on it. I feel that the elastomask of a skull is a step too far, but Lestrade thinks it excellent. Apparently, I owe my companion ten credits.

"I think we should let the Irregulars decide," I sniff.

"I didn't know you were a sore loser Sherlock," Lestrade retorts with a smirk.

"Oh, let him be," Watson advises her. "He will cheer up in his own good time. Now, did you say that you would provide the music for the evening?"

I have had quite enough. Rather than being forced to listen to Beth and Watson discussing adequate Hallowe'en music, I turn my attention to the box of pumpkins that John has left on the desk.

"Those are to be made into Jacko lanterns," the compudroid informs me.

Lestrade whirls around with a look of horror on her face. "You don't mean you're gonna let the kids play with knives, do you? That's illegal!"

I raise my eyebrows at the Yarder. "My dear Lestrade..."

"Can it Holmes! You are not gonna fast-talk me into this one. Kids under twenty-one years of age aren't lawfully allowed to use knives."

"Then how is somebody under the age of twenty-one supposed to cook?" I ask her. "The law is ridiculous!"

"Holmes..."

"You know that my Irregulars are responsible," I continue, ignoring her attempted interruption. "In any case, in my day 'children' were old enough to marry at the age of fourteen. There were no such things as teenagers or youths; children simply became adults."

Lestrade folds her arms. "In your day, little kids did the most dangerous jobs: sweeping chimneys from the inside, working in mine shafts..."

It is true.

"Don't give me all that zedding rubbish about kids being treated like adults in your day Holmes. In your day, kids weren't even allowed to be kids!"

I raise my hands in defeat. I could argue that children in wealthier families were able to have more of a childhood, but that would give her a perfect opportunity to enquire about mine.

"They are not using the knives," the Yarder repeats firmly.

"Each... 'child' will have an adult's help and supervision, which is more than I can say for myself the first time that I used a knife (I believe that I was nine or ten years of age and I was working alone). Now, what could be safer?"

"I dunno... Not giving 'em knives in the first place?"

I know that Lestrade has my Irregulars' best interests at heart but this is still ridiculous! I am beginning to see why I have heard the phrase 'health and safety gone mad' uttered so frequently.

John and Watson agree with me, in spite of all the Yarder's protestations, and she eventually submits (though she does continue to half-heartedly protest). I do sympathise with the inspector; she represents the law and, should something go wrong, she could be held accountable. All the same, as I have already said, each of my Irregulars will be working with John, Watson or myself and Lestrade is free to supervise and ensure that we are behaving as responsible adults should.

I must admit, I am most grateful to John for deciding that we should make Jacko lanterns. Arguing (and winning the argument) with Lestrade is always a welcome distraction and I prefer creativity to nonsensical games.

The Irregulars arrive together and do not seem the slightest bit put out in regard to being kept from their Trick or Treating.

"You make a good vampire, Mr. Holmes," Tennyson remarks in his usual series of beeps and whirs when John shows them into the sitting room.

Ah yes! I was forgetting. I ask my Irregulars to decide whether or not Watson's costume is better than mine, as Lestrade claims.

"Holmes is of the opinion that I am not very good at dressing up," my companion explains, choosing not to mention the bet.

The manner in which the mask is designed would appear to be the deciding factor, for it does look horribly realistic. Both boys are suitably impressed, while Deirdre prefers my vampire costume.

"You most decidedly owe me ten credits Holmes," Watson informs me with a smirk.

"There was money on it?" Wiggins asks as I grimace. "Sorry Mr. Holmes. I didn't know."

I shrug with my hands. "It is of no great importance," I assure them with a small smile. "Your costumes are... interesting... Could you tell me what you are? Modern monsters, I assume."

Wiggins looks surprised. "You don't know Frankenstein's Monster?"

Should I?

"I know the story," Watson tells them. "But I am not surprised that Holmes would not be familiar with it. He has little time for works of fiction."

"You should know what Tennyson is," Lestrade tells me. "You've seen War of the Worlds enough times Holmes." She goes on to congratulate the lad and remarks that it was clever of him to make his hoverchair resemble the hood of a 'fighting machine'.

Perhaps I should know what the invading Martians look like after watching Lestrade's musical with her, but I am always too interested in the soundtrack to bother overly much with the visual aspect (or the story). I do not think that I should tell her that, however; the inspector seems to be of the opinion that the story and such are important and I believe that one argument is quite enough for one evening.

Deirdre looks as if she is going to a fashion show of some sort. She might have coloured her skin a shade of blue and purchased a purple wig, but I would not say that she looks like a monster.

"I thought I'd come as an alien too," she says with a shrug. "I couldn't find a monster costume I liked, so I invented my own."

Well, it is certainly creative. I tell them that they have all done well and then explain that Watson has prepared some traditional Hallowe'en and Harvest Festival games to teach them.

We begin with bobbing for apples. Why I am expected to join in I shall never understand, but the undignified game is inflicted upon me all the same. My competitive nature already roused by the wager of earlier, I soon find myself unable to give up. Time and again I try to catch one of the annoying fruits in my mouth and time and again they escape.

Eventually I am forced to stop by the need to breathe. Coughing and gasping, I realise I must admit defeat and take myself off to the fireside (I had not realised quite how wet I had become).

Watson drapes a couple of rugs about my shoulders and touches my arm. "I had forgotten just how competitive you can be," he remarks quietly.

I sniff and pull the blankets closer. "That is why I dislike games. I am far too old to behave in such a manner."

He shakes his head. "You are only as old as you feel Holmes. Come now, come and watch the others' efforts. I believe Lestrade is going to have a go next."

"You might want to get some more rugs ready," I predict with a smirk. "She is as inclined to give up as I am."

He nods. "I have asked John to ensure that she does not drown herself. Well, shall we?"

I leave the fireside reluctantly and return to the group that is gathered around the bowl on the coffee table, which has been positioned in the centre of the room.

Lestrade is soon even more soaked than I. I do not think that this game was a good idea at all, but she would appear to be enjoying herself. She eventually manages to claim an apple and comes to my side with her prize to crunch it annoyingly in my ear with a smug smile on her green face.

"Enjoying that, are we?" I ask, raising an irked eyebrow at her.

"Mmm," she closes her eyes with appreciation. "Nothing tastes better than sweet success. Want some?"

"No thank you." I shiver and attempt to pull the rugs about me closer still.

She rests a hand on mine and grimaces. "You're freezing! D'you feel OK?"

"Yes thank you."

"Well, OK then," she shrugs and withdraws her hand.

Why does she worry so much?

"Go on Doctor Watson!" I hear Wiggins say. "Show us how it's done."

My companion removes his elastomask and kneels at the coffee table. "I was rather good at this when I was a boy," he informs the Irregulars. "But that was rather a long time ago."

It takes him three attempts to retrieve an apple. He takes a bow and stands beside me. He has managed to avoid getting very wet at all I see.

"Bravo Watson," I congratulate him with a small smile.

He returns my smile somewhat shyly before turning his attention to the Irregulars. "Who is next?"

Deirdre is not as competitive as Lestrade and myself. Having watched Watson's approach, she remains calm and collected. Well, she does not get wet, at least. "I quit!" she shouts when ten minutes of patience do not pay off. "How're you meant to do this anyway?"

"You're too worried about getting messed up," Wiggins says. "I'll show you how it's done."

"I would be careful not to speak too soon if I were you," I caution him with a smile. "It is not as easy as it looks."

He looks suitably ashamed of himself. "Sorry."

"It's OK," Deirdre assures him. "I know you didn't mean it. Come on then, show us how it's done."

He grins and has a try. "It is hard!" he gasps after a few moments. "Watson made it look so easy!"

I nudge my companion in the ribs. "Is there a trick to it?"

"No," he shakes his head. "You only require persistence and patience, I suppose."

"Do you have many patients?" I enquire, raising an eyebrow.

Lestrade groans. "Aw really Holmes..."

Watson smiles broadly. "Shall we play a different game?"

Oh God! No more! "What sort of game?" I ask warily.

"Wink murder," Lestrade suggests.

"That is a new one!" Watson remarks. "How is it played?"

The rules sound simple enough. There is a murderer and a detective. The remaining players are victims, who the detective must save by uncovering the murderer before he (or she) can kill them all by winking at them. A game of stealth and wits; I like it already!

Lestrade takes some paper and a pen from my desk and makes some 'tickets', as she calls them. "Mind if I borrow your top hat Holmes?" she asks.

"What are the tickets for?" I ask her, going to her side to watch her work.

She turns her back so that I am unable to see what she is doing. "I was just coming to that, OK? The detective's ticket's got a 'D' on it, the murderer's got an 'M' and the victims are 'V's. Now, you take a ticket, look at it and then put it in a pocket or something; don't let anyone know what you get. Oh, unless you're the detective; you can tell us if you're the detective. OK, are we ready to play?"

Deirdre is the detective. I look about me carefully, trying to see who the murderer is. There is a sudden series of unintelligible beeps and whirs as Tennyson sprawls forward in his hoverchair. The first victim is dead then.

I continue to look about me carefully. The murderer would appear to be playing his hand with a great deal of cunning. Is Lestrade the murderer? I am just about to turn my scrutiny upon her when I feel an urge to sneeze. I manage to give vent without uttering a sound and am just about to turn my attention back to the game when I am startled by a sudden cry from Wiggins, who begins to stagger about the sitting room.

"Stop hamming it and die already," Lestrade growls.

"Ah ha! It's Mr. Holmes!" crows Deirdre. "He moved just before Wiggins died."

"Sorry my dear," I shake my head and present her with my 'V' ticket. "That was a sneeze, not a wink."

"Oh. Bless you then, I guess," she mumbles dejectedly.

"Thank you," I turn to Beth. "How many guesses should the detective get? It was hardly Deirdre's fault that I drew attention to myself."

"I guess she can have another go, but there're only three victims left. Make this one count kid."

"Thank you Officer," Deirdre growls.

Watson catches my eye and winks. I clutch at my chest, cough once and collapse onto the floor.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade jumps to her feet as John hurries to my side without a word.

I frown up at them. "I am sorry. Was that too realistic?"

"Yes," the Yarder growls. She mutters something about playing games with actors being unwise.

"It's Watson," Deirdre announces.

My companion shows her his ticket. "It was indeed, but how did you know? I had thought that I was acting while you were facing away from me."

She smiles. "You didn't react when Mr. Holmes collapsed, so you must've been expecting him to do something; you had to be the murderer."

"Very clever. I must congratulate you Deirdre," I shiver and hunch my shoulders. "Shall we play another round or make a start on the Jacko lanterns?"

Lestrade folds her arms. "First, you can get out of those wet clothes before you get sick. You've already started sneezing."

It was one slight, easily stifled sneeze - a trifle! - and I say as much. I find myself outnumbered.

"Lestrade is quite right Holmes," Watson says. "You were feeling chilly before you came to be so wet; you should get into something warm and dry."

"Yes indeed," seconds John. "You shall not miss anything."

"You do look pretty cold and miserable," Wiggins adds.

I raise my hands in defeat and go through to my bedroom. It takes only moments for me to throw on my discarded clothing from earlier in the day and I am back in the sitting room in no time.

I drape my dressing gown about Lestrade's shoulders as I return to the sitting room and stand at her side. Her apartment is fitted with triple-glazed windows and central heating; if I was feeling cold I am sure that she must be as well.

"Thanks Holmes," she acknowledges gratefully with a slight shiver as she slips her arms inside the sleeves. "I bet I look like I've just had a turn on a ducking stool, huh?"

I chuckle quietly and squeeze her arm. "You do look half-drowned, yes."

"Can we make Jacko lanterns?" Tennyson asks.

Wiggins seconds his decision. "Yeah, we can play more games later. I wanna make a lantern too."

John hands out some hot blackcurrant drinks that he has clearly made while everyone was waiting for me. "I think that you should have some refreshment before you do anything else."

I smile at the robot gratefully and sip at my drink. It is warming and good (and actually tastes like blackcurrant, which is a notable bonus). "Thank you John. I did need this."

"Mmm," Lestrade nods her agreement. "It's really good."

"Is it?" he asks with amusement. "It is only blackcurrant cordial that has been diluted with boiled water as opposed to cold tap water."

"Well, it's just what I needed," she says with a shrug.

I soon learn that John and Watson have gone to a great deal of trouble over the refreshments. The punch bowl is not even the half of it! John's cakes and biscuits each have a Hallowe'en-themed picture on them in piped icing and the pizzas have clearly been made from scratch because the bases are specially shaped and decorated to fit the theme (they are shaped like cobwebs; the threads made of grated red Leicester cheese, which overlays the usual parmesan. One is littered with black and green olives, anchovies and halved cherry tomatoes. Another has pepper and tomato slices on it and the remaining has what would appear to be slices of sausage). There are pickled onions which John has somehow made to resemble eyeballs (ugh!) and I take it that the pickled beetroot are supposed to be livers or something. There are also some gruesome-looking pastries and a selection of shop-bought crisps and sweets that are shaped and coloured to fit the theme as well.

The drinking glasses (which were clearly purchased with the punch bowl) are made to look like test tubes, which fits rather well with those blue and green fizzy drinks. I am rather surprised when I see that those drinks are foaming rather more than I would expect. They actually do resemble a byproduct of one of my experiments and I am somewhat alarmed until John explains that fizzy drinks always foam like that when they are poured over icecream (which is just what he has done, obviously).

I am surprised to see that there are no sandwiches, though I suppose that they are rather dull. I decide to try a slice of the pizza with anchovies on it, as I know what those are. I am not at all sure about sausage that has been purchased from a 22nd Century shop.

Watson sits beside me on our settee, humming cheerfully. "Are you feeling happier now?" he asks quietly.

I simply nod, as my mouth is rather full.

"I am glad," he says with a bright smile. "I did say that it would be fun."

Yes, bravo Watson; you know better than I on this matter. I remain silent, savouring the taste of John's pizza.

Lestrade takes to the settee on the other side of me so that I am squashed between her and Watson. I might be inclined to complain, but she is still shivering and is probably hoping to share body heat.

I am tempted to wrap an arm about her, as Watson often does when I am cold, but that would only press her wet clothing closer to her skin and chill her further. Poor Beth! If only we had some clothing here that would fit her adequately.

"You are still cold Lestrade!" John notices suddenly. "Wait here while I find you some more blankets."

"Thanks." She tucks her legs up beneath her and curls into my side.

Ugh! "Lestrade, I must protest! You are soaking wet!"

She shrugs and shivers. "Well, 'course I am."

John soon has Beth well wrapped up, but her shoulders remain hunched.

"You should eat something," I tell her just as Watson is about to say the same. "You should feel better once you have some sustenance in your stomach."

She nods and begins to stand somewhat regretfully.

"Allow me," John offers kindly. "What would you like?"

"The pizza looks good. Could I try a small slice of those?"

"Which ones?"

She shrugs. "Any. I'm not all that fussy."

"I recommend the olive and anchovy one," I inform her with a smile. "It is quite delicious."

Wiggins grimaces. "I like the pepperoni one better," he says tactfully.

I shrug my shoulders and try a 'Dead Man's Finger' (a savoury pastry which John has assured me that he invented and created himself). They are delicious!

"I was thinking that I might try my hand at pumpkin soup tomorrow," the compudroid announces suddenly. "There might even be enough for a pumpkin pie as well."

I have never had either of those and neither has Watson. I believe that I have only ever had the vegetable boiled.

"Pumpkin's a sweet vegetable," Lestrade informs me as she tucks into the food that John has supplied her with. "The pumpkin pie is a dessert. It's good."

A healthy dessert! Whatever next?

"If Holmes and Watson don't like it, you can always send it my way John," the Yarder says with a smirk, clearly having noted my doubtful expression. Damn her! Most people find me virtually unreadable, yet she, Watson and John are able to read me like a book. It is terribly irksome!

When we have all ate our fill we turn our attention to the pumpkins. Each Irregular chooses one while John goes off to retrieve the marker pens.

"Now," I place a stool between myself and Tennyson and kneel on the floor opposite the lad while Watson and Deirdre sit at my desk and Wiggins awaits John's return at the dining table. "I want you to think very carefully about your design. Remember that you will have to be able to cut it out. When you have your pen, be careful not to draw the first thing that enters your mind; you want the design to be big enough to cover the front of your pumpkin but to be quite simple. I myself would probably simply use triangles, squares and rectangles to make a face, like so..." I draw a quick design on my tablet and show it to them. The eyes are made up of four narrow rectangles which are arranged in pairs, giving the appearance of narrwed eyes, the nose is two triangles (which is meant to resemble a nose on a human skull) and the mouth is another set of triangles, which are arranged as fangs.

"Not bad," Lestrade remarks.

"If you are not sure about the design," I continue, "you could leave that until we have hollowed the pumpkins out. We shall have to do that before we cut the designs out anyway."

When did I last make a Jacko lantern? It must have been when I was at school as a young boy, yet I remember how it is done so very well.

We make a start on hollowing out the pumpkins into dishes (John does not like to waste anything edible, hence his researching pumpkin recipes) when the robot returns and then I assist Tennyson in drawing his Jacko lantern's face on his pumpkin.

I soon learn that Tennyson is rather good with a knife; I hardly have to give him any instructions at all. I am surprised, for I was expecting to have to help him or even to take over; his speciality is computer-related activities.

I can hear Watson alternating between praising and correcting Deirdre behind us. I take it that she is not finding it quite as easy.

Wiggins and John are the first to finish. I suspect that John might have done most of the work, but I say nothing. I had, after all, agreed that we should step in should the Irregular that we are mentoring begin to struggle.

"Nice," Lestrade remarks as I light the finished lanterns (with battery-operated tea lights, much to the interfering Yarder's relief) and set them out on the coffee table.

"Three perfectly-crafted Jacko lanterns by three responsible young adults," I say with a smirk.

She huffs and gives me a glare but refuses to reply.

We play another round of Wink Murder. I rather enjoy myself, which has nothing at all to do with my plucking the 'M' ticket from the hat. Remembering that Deirdre mistook my stifled sneeze for an attempt at disguising my winks, I decide to give that a try when John (the detective) seems unwilling to take his eyes off of me. It works! Lestrade collapses (rather overly dramatically) to the floor and nobody gives me a second glance. Both Watson and John notice the 'sneeze' and bless me though, so it might be wise not to try that too often.

I casually watch for my next victim, all the while keeping a watchful eye on John. This is rather difficult! How the deuce did Watson manage this to the point of almost getting away with it?

John is keeping a close eye on Deirdre now; most likely because she is sitting opposite the first victim. I calmly catch Wiggins' eye and give him a wink while still turning my head. I would appear to be getting the hang of this! Two victims dead already! Now, who should I 'kill' next?

As John is still watching Deidre, I decide to wink at the person that she is currently looking at. Watson is not a bad actor when he is at play! Why can he not be so convincing when it actually matters?

"Deirdre, the game is up," John announces with a smile. "I know that it is you; I saw that you were looking in both Lestrade and Doctor Watson's direction when they died."

"You were watching the wrong person sir," she says with a smile as she presents him with her ticket. "I'm innocent."

He sags dejectedly. "I was so sure..."

Watson goes to his side and pats his arm sympathetically, quite forgetting that he is meant to be dead. "Never mind old chap. Does he get another guess Lestrade?"

The Yarder shakes her head. "We only gave Deirdre a second chance because Holmes drew attention to himself. I guess that means the murderer wins and gets to kill all his victims."

I stand up with a small smile and 'shoot' the remaining two 'victims' with my fingers. "Bang! Bang!"

John narrows his eyes at me. "You cunning devil!"

I give a sweeping bow. "It is in both my nature and profession to be crafty John. You know that."

"You disguised your first kill with a sneeze, knowing that I would not suspect after the mistake that Deirdre made."

I smile broadly. "I did indeed."

He grumbles. "And to think that I was actually concerned!"

"That's because you care," Lestrade tells him as she addresses me with a glare that is cold enough to freeze an ocean.

I sniff and shrug with my hands. "Would you like to play another round, or would you prefer a little surprise?"

The Irregulars seem intrigued while John and Lestrade are somewhat wary and Watson would appear to be a little of both.

"Dim the lights if you please," I instruct with a smile as I rub my hands together.

"Uh oh," Lestrade groans. "What're you gonna do?"

I give no reply. Instead, I eagerly light the fuse of one of the indoor fireworks that I purchased as a finale. "I know that Guy Fawkes Night is still five days away but I thought that we might have these now."

I am not impressed with the fireworks in the slightest. I know that they have to be safe, but for the price that I paid for the wretched things I expected an impressive display. What I have is a box of anticlimax and disappointment; it is not the perfect ending that I had in mind for the party. All the same, the Irregulars are amused and I am glad that at least someone enjoys them.

When the 'fireworks' are finished with I throw myself into my armchair and rub at my temple with a grimace. That was the most expensive box of rubbish that I have ever purchased!

"We'll go to a real firework display on Bonfire Night," Lestrade proposes as she leans at the back of my chair and pats my shoulder. "I haven't seen one in years."

I turn to meet her gaze, attempting to conceal my sudden despondency with a smile. "I would like that, but can you get the time off? I should think that the fifth of November is rather busy for the emergency services."

She shrugs her shoulders. "Grayson owes me."

That is true; the chief inspector probably owes her multiple favours.

"It was a great party," the Yarder continues with a smile. "I'm glad you talked me into it Watson. Thanks."

My companion shakes her by the hand. "It was a pleasure. Now, did you bring a coat?"

She nods. "It's hanging up downstairs."

"I shall get it for you," I offer as I leap from my chair. Perhaps moving will push my disappointment aside. "That hall can be somewhat draughty and I perceive that your hair is still rather damp."

"I am not going to hear the end of the apple bobbing am I?" Watson groans.

"I should think not," I respond with bad humour. "It was a terrible idea!"

Lestrade chuckles quietly. "Well, I enjoyed it. I had a lot of fun."

The Irregulars agree with her and ask Watson whether there will be a Christmas party later in the year. I should like to leave the country this December, I think. I retrieve Lestrade's coat from the vestibule and return to the sitting room to hand it to the Yarder.

"Lestrade, I beg of you," I say seriously as she hands John the rugs and dressing gown from off her shoulders and slips on her overcoat, "do please drive carefully."

She raises her eyebrows at me. "What d'you think I'm gonna do Sherlock? Anyway, I'm giving the kids a lift home; it'll save you and John a trip."

"Thank you, but it is hardly any trouble," I respond. I enjoy my Irregulars' company!

"You must be tired Holmes. Watson's yawning and John looks like he needs his charger too. 'Sides, it's not like I'll be going outta my way."

I shrug and the goodbyes are exchanged. Baker Street is soon left feeling very quiet and empty.

It is five days after the Hallowe'en party and we are all assembled on Tower Bridge. The Irregulars are waving sparklers while we adults (excluding John for obvious reasons) enjoy hot chocolate from paper cups.

The fireworks are like nothing that I have ever seen before! They are set off from the decks of two remote controlled ships, so that the display takes place either side of the bridge (at a safe enough distance, naturally). It is not surprising that the Irregulars were so excited about this display; it is truly breathtaking!

Lestrade's gloved hand finds mine in the darkness and she leans toward me. "Was this worth the wait in the cold?" she asks over the noise.

I simply address her with a smile and squeeze her hand. I wonder what kept me from watching the fireworks last year. A case? I certainly missed out!

When the fireworks come to an end, the procession makes its way to Westminster, where a Guy Fawkes is being burnt on a bonfire while vendors sell hot foods and drink. I toss my empty cup into a bin as we pass it while the Irregulars discard their spent sparklers into one of the waiting buckets of water. John then takes them to a vendor and purchases some hot refreshments for them.

Watson and I stand watching the bonfire together in silence for a moment or two and then my companion touches my arm.

"Are you all right?" I ask him, suddenly realising that the flashes and bangs might have unsettled my friend.

He nods and sniffs quietly. "A bit cold, but that display was worth it. I have enjoyed myself."

"As have I Watson," I respond as I wrap an arm about him. "I had not realised until I had to start making friends in this century just how important good company is."

He moves a little closer to me but makes no comment. How valuable his silence is and how pleasant that he always seems to know when to speak and when to say nothing.

Lestrade approaches us and hands Watson and I a hot and heavily buttered baked potato each. "Had fun?" she asks.

"Lestrade, I really do not think that I could ever thank you enough," my companion says with a smile.

She smirks at him in response. "Boy, are you easily pleased! It's only a jacket potato."

"I was not talking about the potato," he responds with a shake of his head.

"I know what you meant," she assures him with a smile that could give the bonfire behind her a run for its money in terms of warmth and brightness.

The Irregulars join us and we make our way back to our parked cars on the other side of the river. It is agreed that the Yarder will drop Deirdre home while we 'guys' take Wiggins and Tennyson. The usual farewells are exchanged and we take to the air and go our seperate ways.

I smile to myself as I watch more fireworks from the passenger window while John drives. Though the displays have all run their course, fireworks will still be being launched from gardens and flat roofs well into the early hours of the morning.

"You are all very quiet," John remarks suddenly.

Tennyson explains that he is feeling sleepy and Watson admits that he is also weary. Wiggins would appear to already be sleeping, unless he simply has nothing to add. I privately agree that the day was quite a long one, but the evening has been pleasant and I can think of no better way of seeing in the cold winter that is clearly looming on the horizon than while surrounded by friends. I wearily rest my forehead against the cold glass beside me and once again turn my attention to the fireworks below as my mind wanders in the direction of the days ahead. My last drowsy thought before sleep claims me is that I appear to be looking forward to Christmas for the first time in my life and feel a small smile tug at my lips as my eyes gently close.

_**Author's note**__**: I came up with the idea for this story while I was working on "One Wish" (which I promise I will complete). My first thought was to include this in that story, but I decided that that would take the story off track somewhat and felt that this would make quite a nice stand-alone story. I sincerely hope that I was right.**_

_**Bonfire Night, AKA Guy Fawkes or Firework Night, is a traditional English celebration (for want of a better word) in memory of the failed assassination attempt against King James I. The plot was that on the 5th of November 1605 the House of Lords would be blown up from below while the King was present, but the plot was foiled by an anonymous letter and the man who was meant to guard the barrels of gunpowder and light the fuses (Guy Fawkes) was caught, but most of his accomplices managed to flee London. Fawkes was put to death for treason to the crown.**_

_**Yes, I am sure that it must sound rather barbaric that we celebrate such a thing, but it is a vital piece of our history and the celebrations are of as much importance to the British calendar as the 4th of July is to the American one.**_


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